


Making the Pass

by Em2205



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Slow Burn, Villanelle’s a chef
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23484559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em2205/pseuds/Em2205
Summary: Villanelle is a rising star chef with her own restaurant in London. She has everything she’s ever wanted, except someone to watch movies with. Eve has given up her former life to manage her husband’s restaurant and craves more from life. Enter Villanelle...
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 16
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first fic for years and first for Killing Eve, please be gentle!
> 
> I’m always blown away at the talent in the fandom and can only hope that someone, somewhere enjoys this. Any comments you have would be gratefully received :) Thanks for reading.

Eve is restless, the muscles in her legs preparing to run some sort of imaginary marathon. 

_As if that would ever happen._

She tries to hold herself still and relax but god does she feel wide awake. Her husband Niko snores softly beside her and she thinks of several ways she could get him to shut up. Elbow to the ribs. Rolling him over. Or just smothering him with the cold side of the pillow. What’s pleasure without pain, right? 

Niko has the annoying habit of being able to fall asleep anywhere. At the start of their relationship they’d gone travelling around South America for a month and she was amazed that he could fall asleep on sweaty busses, crowded airports and anywhere in between. She used to think it was cute, but now it’s just another thing on a growing list of annoyances. She would roll her eyes at him in frustration if she wasn’t currently squeezing them tightly closed, willing herself to lose consciousness. 

Eve tries hard to tune out the sounds coming from next to her and focus her attention on quieting her mind. That’s what all the apps talk about isn’t it? Observe the thoughts, place them on a leaf and watch them float away. Well Eve’s thoughts are too fucking big and they just won’t go down stream. She breathes out a sigh and shakes her head from side to side to try and dislodge them instead, her hair softly brushing against the fabric of the pillow. 

She rolls over in frustration and looks at the digital clock on the nightstand. 02:04 stares back at her and she can feel her frustration grow. 

“Well fuck you too,” she whispers under her breath and the clock flicks to 02:05, taunting her with its inevitability. Eve swears she been laid there for _years_ but in reality it’s only been half an hour since Niko came in from the restaurant. The scent of food clings to his skin and she can feel the mattress dip behind her with his dead weight. She knew how many bookings they had tonight and that he would have been rushed off his feet. A pang of guilt makes itself known in the pit of her stomach, but she works hard to push it down. She deserved her night off and damn she had enjoyed it.

Eve had drank her way through a couple of beers, ordered curry with extra lime pickle and spent the night in the study surrounded by the remnants of her former life. She’d studied criminology and forensic psychology and her analytical mind was as sharp as a razor. That’s what had made her such a good security operative for the British intelligence service. But that was a lifetime ago. Now she was the wife of a chef and co-owner of _Polastri’s,_ a small restaurant serving Polish-Korean fusion food. Niko was so desperate to tie them together that when they finally took the plunge to start the business, he wanted the menu to reflect them both. She should have seen it as a gesture to honour their individual heritage, but Eve just found it suffocating. The restaurant was always Niko’s dream, not hers, but she sacrificed her life as she knew it, her passion and autonomy and walked hand in hand into the unknown territory of business ownership. That’s what a good partner would do, isn’t it? Be supportive of their spouse’s dream and ride the rough with the smooth. But Eve wants to get off this ride and wants a refund on the ticket. 

Her nights off to herself are rare and she anchors herself to them to keep herself afloat in a sea of mundanity. When she has time, Eve carefully takes down a box from a shelf in the study and allows herself to get lost in old case files. It’s like a memory box from a past relationship and each file represents a small piece of her former self, stashed away just waiting to come out. She loses herself in the photographs of murders she had solved and reads through old criminal profiles and case formulations she had written about assassins that were “of interest” to intelligence services. Sometimes she’s feels so disconnected from her former self that she struggles to believe the work was even hers to begin with. But it is. Well, it _was._ The night always ends with her slowly boxing up the past and an overwhelming sense of regret that wraps itself around her like a shawl. A shawl that just might strangle her one of these days. 

She looks back at the clock and it shows 02:28. At least her reminiscing had wasted another 23 minutes. _Wasted._ When did Eve’s life become wasted? The guilt resurfaces, slowly oozing through her and gnawing at her insides. This was the decision she’d made because she thought it was the right thing to do. It was what she felt she _should_ do. She knew her relationship to Niko had been distant for the past 5 years and she felt responsible for it. Her job at MI5 had been all consuming and it wasn’t Niko’s fault that it took her away from him, piece by piece, claiming her for itself. He had made sacrifices too, leaving his job as a secondary school maths teacher to pursue his passion. Eve admired him for that at least. It took guts and confidence to leap into the unknown for something you truly loved and believed in.

But now she found herself caught in the Venus fly trap of someone else’s dream and it was slowly choking the life out of her. She thought joining him in the venture would be a way to reconnect, to show him that she was still in this. Whatever _this_ was. But it had the opposite effect and she felt even more disconnected from Niko, from life, from herself. The only saving grace was Niko was so busy with the restaurant he didn’t notice her lack of interest and of course she had become skilled at hiding it. Eve was floating through life, merely existing, but she plastered on a smile every day and attacked managing the restaurant with vigour. Well, she tried anyway. If she was in this enterprise, she was damn well going to do the best job she could. She could hear the echo of her parents in the back of her mind, telling her the importance of hard work and sacrifice.

Despite her lack of desire and interest, she was a bloody good restaurant manager. She has transferable skills don’t you know? Her analytical mind helped her keep a grip of the finances, the planning, the ordering and staff management and Niko got to run the kitchen. Eve felt in control over her professional tasks, it was just the personal life that was a bit of a shit show. The restaurant was actually doing pretty well considering they’d only be open 18 months. She was proud of Niko for throwing himself into it 110% and she felt some sense of purpose from doing her bit. But Eve wants _more._

She rolls over into her back, breathing out a puff of air in sheer annoyance at her overactive mind. Eve craves to feel alive again, to have excitement and adrenaline rush through her veins and prickle her skin. She just doesn’t see how things will change. 

Thankfully she starts to feel the slow pull of sleep clawing at her from the edges. She blinks slowly once...twice... and feels her body start to go slack against the bed, her muscles finally giving in and relaxing, the imaginary marathon complete. As sleep comes up to claim her, quieting her mind and wrapping her up in a void of nothingness, she casts one last thought into the ether. _Surely there’s more than this?_

——

Villanelle has been on her feet all day and she’s counting down the seconds until she can sit down. She makes her way upstairs to her apartment, taking the stairs two at a time in a graceful but impatient manner. Villanelle wasn’t known for her patience. Arriving at the door to her apartment in record time, her keys jangle gently in her hand as she moves them to find the right one. Leaning her weight into the door she pushes it open, feeling herself instantly start to relax at the thought of being in her own space. 

Villanelle pauses in the hallway, taking off her black combat boots and shrugs her leather jacket off her shoulders. She moves with purpose through the hallway into her large open plan living space, the city of London skyline visible through the wall of windows facing her. She eyes the comfy L-shaped sofa to her left. 

“Ah, not just yet,” she says out loud to no one in particular, her accent thicker than usual, betraying how tired she really is. Villanelle has a routine before she’ll allow herself to stop for the day and she’s not quite there yet. 

She moves deeper into the apartment, making her way to her bedroom. She changes quickly into pyjama shorts, a vest top and fluffy polka dot socks, grabbing her silk robe from the back of the door as she passes. Being Russian she doesn’t feel the cold but she hates having cold feet. She tip toes her way into the en suite bathroom, eyeing the shelf full of luxurious moisturises and perfumes. When she finds what she’s looking for, she regards herself in the mirror as she starts to remove her make up. 

“Beautiful.” She compliments her reflection, her hazel eyes twinkling in the bright lights of the bathroom as she ties her blonde hair in a messy bun on top of her head. 

Villanelle’s long, athletic legs carry her back to the living space where she opens the fridge, taking out left over Thai food from the night before and a bottle of beer. The microwave quickly does its thing and eventually she makes her way to the sofa. She collapses heavily into the softness of the cushions, her legs resting on the wooden coffee table in front of her, her ankles crossed in a relaxed pose. 

An extended breath helps to release the tension and stress of the day, her body slowly reaching a place of relaxation. Being an executive chef in her own restaurant wasn’t easy, but the hard work and discipline was all worth while for the lavish lifestyle she now had. 

Villanelle hadn’t always been the successful individual that she is now. Growing up in Russia Oksana was rebellious, cocky and almost feral. Her mother had died from cancer when she was young and her father found solace at the bottle of a vodka bottle. Oksana was sadly left to her own devices and just about managed to get herself to school when she wasn’t stealing from local shops just so she could eat. 

Her teacher Anna was the only person who really cared for her and could see how incredibly smart, yet vulnerable she was underneath the bolshy teenage exterior. Oksana had excelled in languages and they spent hours easily conversing in French. Anna had been the first person to teach her how to cook and Oksana had been a fast learner. They started with traditional dishes such as borscht and pelmeni, until Oksana had started to experiment with French pastries, her skill and flair really starting to show. She would experiment with different recipes in Anna’s kitchen and feed them to her over the counter, desperate for compliments and looks that made her insides tighten and her palms sweaty. 

It was one such night that Oksana had kissed Anna, licking fresh cream off her lip from the latest recipe. The sex was frantic and awkward, all tongue and teeth and fast hands. Anna had cried afterwards, slumped over the kitchen table full of guilt and shame, mumbling that they had _sinned._ Oksana stood frozen, struggling to understand what she’d done wrong or how to fix things. She left that night with embarrassment colouring her cheeks and bile acrid in her mouth. 

Oksana left Russia, discarding the broken pieces of her already messed up life and made her way across Europe. She moved through cities in a blur of petty theft, kitchen jobs and meaningless sex. A free spirit was hard to tie down and she survived by picking up new skills and knowledge, before her passion for food propelled her to the next city. 

She finally settled in Paris for a few years, learning all there was to know about French cuisine, her mind sometimes drifting back to thoughts of Anna. Her flamboyant, boisterous, uncompromising personality came through in her cooking and she soon developed a name for herself as a rising star. 

Meeting Konstantin had been the real turning point in her career. He hailed from Russia originally too and invested both time and money into Villanelle. There was something about her that he found charming, despite her childish outbursts and arrogance. He took a chance on her in his own restaurant, making her his sous chef, a decision he never regretted even though she drove him mad. 

When Villanelle told him she wanted to open her own restaurant in London, he was sad to see her go but knew she deserved it. Konstantin provided the financial backing and expertise she needed, but everything else was purely Villanelle. _Pécheresse_ opened to rave reviews and Villanelle cemented her reputation as a bold, vibrant chef who wasn’t afraid to push boundaries and take risks. 

But despite all her success, Villanelle is still sat in her pyjamas eating last night’s take away. Alone. 

Ever since Anna, she hadn’t dared to let herself get close to anyone. Well, apart from Konstantin but she wasn’t going to have a relationship with him. She put her heart in a box, wrapped it in chains and threw it into a metaphorical void. Villanelle tried to remain cold and indifferent to the idea of a relationship, determined that she’ll never feel the pain of heartbreak or the shame of feeling unwanted, discarded and unloveable. Villanelle burrowed her way under people’s skin and took what she wanted. People were there for the thrill of the chase, the power of seduction and the satisfaction of submission. After that, they were boring and she moved on.

But Villanelle wants _more._ She has a nice life, cool flat, fun job. But she doesn’t have someone to curl up and watch movies with, to talk to about her day and cook for. Villanelle might be one of the best chefs in town, but she hasn’t cooked _for_ someone since Anna. Sure, she develops the restaurant’s menu, create dishes that assault the senses and is fully booked for the next 6 months. But actually making a dish for someone she cared about, watching them enjoy the taste, the smell, the experience and knowing _she_ was responsible was something that she hadn’t done for years. Yes she thrived on being admired and complimented, but she also craved some sort of real human connection despite being fearful of it. 

She glances to her left at the skyline, the outline of the skyscrapers silhouetted against the warm wash of London’s lights. Another sigh escapes her lips before she takes a long swig of her beer, draining the bottle. She wouldn’t mind sharing the view with someone else, just once. 

Lifting herself up off the sofa, she takes a moment to stretch, her arms above her head exposing the soft skin of her taught stomach. She leaves the beer bottle and dinner plate on the coffee table and moves back towards her bedroom. 

_I’ll clean up tomorrow,_ she thinks to herself, desperate for sleep. She quickly brushes her teeth, hangs up her robe and slides between the soft sheets of her oversized bed. Her room is dark thanks to quality blackout blinds, enabling her to sleep for longer hours in the day. Villanelle needed 8 hours sleep to function and being woken up any earlier was not on her agenda. She can already feel her eyes grow heavy and she steals a quick glance at the clock on her bedside table. 02:28 stares back at her and she’s relieved that she has almost ten hours before she’s needed back at the restaurant. She snuggles deeper into the bedding and wonders briefly. _Is there more than this?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented or sent kudos. I’m so blown away by the response :) 
> 
> I had so much trouble with the html formatting for this chapter, but I got there in the end! 
> 
> Happy Easter, happy Killing Eve Day to the US and happy Killing Eve Eve to the UK :)

Villanelle had woken early and restless, her preferred 8 hours sleep had gone begging and she was not impressed. Sleep usually came easy to her, especially after spending all day on her feet, shouting instructions at her kitchen staff and Hugo in particular. But clearly something was niggling at the back of brain just out of her awareness, it’s presence keenly felt in her lack of quality sleep. 

She’d decided to go for a long run to try and work out some of the tension she was feeling, her long legs extending out in front of her, her feet pounding the pavement. Eighties tunes are her guilty pleasure and she feels herself speed up as Sweet Dreams by the Eurythmics comes on her playlist. A wry smile plays on her lips at the lyric _everybody’s looking for something._

She pushes herself harder and completes 10k just as the sun rises over the city, washing it in a warm glow. She takes her time showering, mentally preparing herself for the day ahead. Villanelle always took long showers and gave herself the pampering she deserved. Her best recipes often started as a wandering thought in the shower. 

Saturdays are one of the busiest nights at the restaurant and she’s not in the mood for anything to go wrong. Especially if it’s linked to her lack of sleep. 

Villanelle finally leaves her apartment ready for the day ahead, weaving her way through London traffic on her Triumph Scrambler motorbike. She wears leathers incredibly well, the fabric clinging tightly to her athletic body. She missed the days of riding through Tuscany in jean shorts with the sun warm against her skin. London traffic and English weather don’t lend themselves to such attire, so full leathers it was. 

She arrives at _Pécheresse_ just after midday, feeling ready for whatever the day throws at her. She’d decided early on in the restaurant’s life that they would only open for lunch service on set days in the week, allowing both her and the staff the time and space to dedicate themselves to the evening session. Villanelle wanted dinner to be a spectacle at the restaurant, providing a rich, opulent experience to the patrons.

She nips into her office and quickly changes into her chef’s outfit before pushing her way through the swing door into the kitchen. Villanelle’s aura and personality fill a room more than her physical presence ever could and it’s here that she’s in her element. 

“Hugo!”, she shouts, looking round for her sous chef. His head pops out from the large walk in fridge, his hair flopping over one eye as he looks at her.

“Well, good afternoon Commander,” he replies, a faux Russian accident bumping its way round the military designation. “Before you chew my arse, we’re all set for tonight and the station chefs will be in at 1.”

Villanelle arches her left eyebrow in mild annoyance. She thinks about replying, but nods in acknowledgement and watches as he moves his way around the kitchen, checking each preparation area. Hugo was a giant pain in the ass and his behaviour could be questionable at times, but she took a chance on him and so far, it had paid off.

The son of a hedge fund analyst and a former pupil at Eaton made him an arrogant, entitled prick. Daddy had originally wanted him to go to Oxford, but when Hugo said he wanted to be a chef, money was no object, despite the overwhelming sense of disappointment. He’d studied at the Auguste Escoffier School of Culinary Arts in Colorado and his farm-to-table knowledge meant the restaurant had access to the best produce. As Konstantin had always said, “a restaurant is only as good as the ingredients.”

“How are we doing for the tasting evening next weekend?” Villanelle asks.

Hugo pauses briefly as he flits about and looks at her. “She who shall not be named has it all under control. Everyone knows what they’re doing.” He moves cautiously near her and drops his voice, “It’ll be fine. The new menu is _perfect_.” Their relationship is a professional one, but once in a while Hugo can be reassuring. When he’s not eyeing her up and making sexual comments of course.

“Thanks,” she says quietly and leaves him to do what she pays him generously for. 

“If all else fails, just show them your—“ he shouts towards her retreating form, the swing door thankfully muffling the rest of the comment. 

She rolls her eyes and moves through the corridor to her restaurant manager’s office. Carolyn is poised at her desk, her rectangular glasses sliding down her narrow nose. She’s an austere looking woman with angular features, all clad in cool blues and greys. Villanelle doesn’t think she’s ever seen her wear any other colour of the rainbow.

“Ah, Villanelle. You’re here,” Carolyn says, eyeing her over her classes. Despite being the executive chef and owner of the restaurant, Villanelle somehow always manages to feel like a naughty school kid who’s done something wrong when in Carolyn’s presence.

“I arrived exactly when I meant to,” Villanelle quips back, sitting on the edge of her manager’s desk, her hands nonchalantly slung in the pockets of her patterned chef’s trousers. They’re a vibrant blue covered in a pop art design with “POW!” and “BLAM” written on them. Villanelle thought she looked cool as fuck. “Hugo said you’re all set for next weekend?” 

Carolyn regards her with a cool gaze. “Of course were all set. All the tables are booked and the critics and food writers have been informed. Everything is under control.” She’s a woman of few words, but Villanelle knows her organisational skills are second to none. Konstantin had recommended her when she was looking for a manager and she trusted his judgement. She’s sure his recommendation wasn’t solely based on the fact that Konstantin and Carolyn had obviously, you know, _done it._ The thought makes her shudder and she quickly diverts her attention back the matter at hand.

“Excellent. Everything has to be perfect so people can shower me in compliments.” Villanelle preens at the thought of recognition from customers and critics alike. Her menu was always changing with the seasons, but this was the biggest shift in the menu since the restaurant had opened. She’d been experimenting with flavour combinations, ingredients and techniques and the end result was something she was incredibly proud of. Pastry was her passion and she knew the dishes she had created would blow people away. The tasting evening was a way to showcase the new menu and everything has to be _just right._

“Yes, of course,” Carolyn replies, turning her attention back to her computer screen and her never ending to-do list. “If you excuse me, I have some things to finish before this evening.”

Why does Villanelle always feel like she’s being dismissed from the head teacher’s office? She stands up slowly taking her time to leave, her hands still in her pockets and makes her way out. She pauses in the door way and regards Carolyn over her shoulder. 

“Smell ya later.”

——————

It’s the start of a new week and Eve had promised herself that she would really try to make an effort. She’d enjoyed her incredibly rare Friday night to herself, but the thoughts she’d been having had left guilt heavy in the pit of her stomach.

_I can be a good wife,_ she’d told herself over and over each time she caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t really a case of being a _good_ wife, whatever that meant, just more a case of being the _right_ one. Somewhere in the dark recesses of her brain she knew she wasn’t right for Niko anymore, but she kept shoving it back and stamping it down. She was definitely not ready to deal with _that_

The restaurant was closed on Mondays giving her and Niko a day off together. He’d usually be occupied by thinking up new recipes or reading about ways to improve the business and she would be up in her study reading or out walking just for a change of scenery and a false sense of freedom.

This morning was different though. She’d woken before Niko, which wasn’t uncommon, and made her way downstairs in the early morning light. She brews some coffee, the smell permeating the air with notes of chocolate and vanilla.

Eve opens the back door leading out to the small garden and takes a moment to stand there, her hands wrapped tightly around the steaming mug of fresh coffee. She lives for moments like these, where she can just _be,_ without the weight of expectation and duty. Lifting the mug to her face, she breathes the scent deeply, allowing her senses to come alive. She mindfully takes her first sip, the cool breeze of the morning air contrasting with the heat of the liquid. The taste is rich and smooth and she sighs in pleasure, her eyes closing gently as she takes in the moment and feels the first hit of caffeine rush through her.

All too soon, the moment passes as the little voice in her head reminds her she came down here for a reason. Eve attempts to make some sourdough toast and just manages to rescue it when she starts seeing smoke tendrils rising from the toaster. She honestly can’t cook for shit and sometimes she wonders how on Earth she found her way into the restaurant world.

She butters the toast generously, pours another mug of coffee and places it all on a tray ready to take up to her husband. As she ascends the stairs, she can hear Niko softly snoring in their bedroom and pushes the door open gently with her foot.

“Niko,” she calls out gently, trying to wake him. “I’ve made breakfast.”

She hears him make a small groan at the sound of her voice. “I hope it’s better than your omelettes,” comes the reply, muffled by the pillow. Niko chuckles lights as Eve rolls her eyes, bringing the tray over to him. “What’s all this in aid of?” he asks as he rolls onto his back, sitting up against the pillows and flattening the duvet over his legs. Eve places the tray down on his lap and walks around the bed to her side, sitting cross legged next to him.

“I thought it would be nice since it’s our day off. Look—“ she says pointing at the toast, “I only half burnt it.”

“Well,” he drawls, “I’d better tell Kenny to watch out if there’s a new chef in town.”

Kenny was Niko’s right hand man and had been with them since the beginning of _Polastri’s._ He’s a quiet and socially awkward man, but what he lacks in people skills he makes up for in loyalty and talent in the kitchen. He had spent his youth hiding behind his computer screen, delving into the world of East Asian culture such as K-pop, manga and online gaming.

Kenny was a weird kid who spent a lot of his childhood years eating instant noodles before he began experimenting with Korean foods such as kimchi and jjajangmyeon. Not many 13 year olds had perfected the art of fermenting vegetables, but Kenny had. He spent his later teenage years and early twenties travelling around South Korea picking up whatever knowledge about the cuisine that he could. Eve swore that some of his dishes were better than her mother’s, but she would go to her grave before she ever admitted that out loud.

Despite being completely self-taught, with no formal training, his experience with South Korean food was invaluable to Niko and he was a natural fit at the restaurant. Kenny worked hard, he was diligent and his crush on one of their waitresses Elena, made him even more endearing.

“I’m pretty sure Kenny is safe for a little while at least” Eve replies, grinning at Niko. She knows her kitchen skills leave a lot to be desired but she doesn’t have to know how to make food to enjoy eating it. “Anyway, I got you something.”

Niko’s eyebrows raise in question as he munches his way through his first slice of sourdough. Eve had put enough butter on it to sink a battleship, but it helps to mask the burnt flavour on the edges.

She reaches down to her nightstand and slides out an envelope from the shelf underneath. Scrawled on the front in her looped handwriting is his name and she hands it over.

“What’s this?” he asks, putting his toast down as he takes the envelope from her hand.

“Open it and find out,” she quips, lightly slapping him on the upper arm with the back of her hand. She takes her own coffee mug from the tray in front of him, sipping quietly whilst he opens the envelope.

Inside is a card with a cartoon lettuce on the front, a champagne bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. _Lettuce celebrate!_ is the greeting and Niko smiles to himself at the silly pun. He opens the card and reads the message out loud. “Dear Niko, I know this is something you have been wanting to do for a while. Love Eve.” There is more to the message and he goes silent as he reads the rest to himself.

“Are you serious?!” His surprise and excitement is written all over his face, his eyes bright and his smile growing bigger with each passing second. “You got us a reservation at _Pécheresse?_ How...when...uh...what?” His brain is like a car spinning its wheels, trying to make sense of the information.

“Erm...yeah,” Eve replies, her head hanging slightly down as she looks up at him. “They have a tasting event this Saturday and I know you’ve been dying to go.” She plays with the handle of her coffee mug as Niko turns away from her and puts the tray on the floor next to the bed. The next thing she knows, he’s crushing her in a bear hug, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

“Thank you, thank you,” Niko whispers into her hair, turning his face to pepper kisses on her cheek, ear and neck. Eve tries to return the hug, but her arms are trapped, the coffee mug caught between their bodies. She’s thankful that it’s empty.

“You’re welcome. I wanted to do something nice and I know you’re slightly obsessed with whatshername Astankova.”

“Only her cooking. Apparently she‘s a bit of a dick if the papers are anything to go by. A different woman every week by all accounts,” Niko says, pulling away from her to look at her face.

“Lucky her,” Eve replies, winking at him as she’s finally able to put the mug in a safe spot on the bedside table. She watches as another emotion flashes across her husband’s face, trying to work out what he’s thinking. “What?”

He’s playing with his fingers and looking down at the bed, which she knows is a sign that he’s unsure about something. “Nothing. It’s just...it’s just dawned on me that it’s _this_ Saturday. It’s usually one of our busiest nights and...”

He trails off, not wanting to hurt her feelings, but Eve huffs in annoyance. Doesn’t he realise that she’s trying to make an effort here?! She can’t help being frustrated at the fact the restaurant is always at the forefront of his mind. She knows the business distracts her husband from noticing she’s distant and that’s how she likes it. The irony isn’t lost on her and that annoys her even more.

Eve gets up off the bed and busies herself collecting her mug and the tray of breakfast stuff. Niko can see the annoyance in the stiff set of her body and finds himself confused at the sudden shift in mood. They can’t just _leave_ the restaurant. “Eve, darling. I can’t just—“

“Kenny can run the kitchen. He’s good at his job and he’s be dying to have a go. Just give him a chance,” she throws over her shoulder as she leaves the room, carrying the tray in front of her.

She breathes out a big sigh and heads downstairs, back to the peace and quiet she’d left behind earlier. “Well that didn’t quite go to plan did it Polastri?” she mutters to herself. “What happened to trying to make an effort?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading. V and E will meet soon, I promise!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are you all doing in these weird times? I’ve struggled with lockdown this past week and it’s taken me a while to get going with this chapter. Got there in the end though! It’s shorter than I wanted but I feel like I’m set up for what comes next :) 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read, leave kudos or comments. It genuinely means the world <3

Eve and Niko had quickly fallen into the same familiar pattern of him being confused by her changing mood and her feeling guilty about it. Neither of them talked about what happened, both secretly hoping it would go away, but the space between them continued to fill up with all the stuff that they _weren’t_ saying to each other. 

Despite Eve’s attempt to make an effort, their day off quickly followed the same routine, with each of them lost in their own way of doing things. Niko had eventually tried to make it up to her with soft words and small touches, even though he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Sometimes she didn’t know if she preferred him being nice to her or wanted him to shout at her for being an arsehole. 

Eve could feel the relief wash over her as Monday bled into Tuesday and she was able to shift into thinking about work. As soon as she walked through the door to _Polastri’s_ her professional persona settled over her skin like a suit of armour. It served as a welcome distraction from her brooding feelings and she was able to focus her attention elsewhere. 

As a way to pacify her, Niko said he’d take the lead on talking to Kenny about Saturday. She can hear her husband talking to their employee now, fumbling over his words as he tries to justify the request he’s making. It makes her cringe inside but she can’t help herself from hovering by the kitchen door to listen in. 

“—so erm, Eve has booked this thing for Saturday and I...well, we wondered if...” 

She overhears Niko trailing off and silently wills him to keep going. She should let him find his own way, but there’s a piece of her that’s dying at how awkward the exchange sounds. Eve peaks through the circular window in the swing door and almost laughs at the tableaux in front of her. Both men are stood facing each other with stiff postures, Kenny holding a meat cleaver and Niko holding a whisk. It’s look like a scene from an alternative western movie, with both men facing off against each other, their chosen weapon in hand. 

Without consciously being aware of it Eve’s feet carry her forward into the kitchen. Both men stare at her as she takes up the space between them. “Kenny. What Niko is trying to say is I’ve booked us a table at this fancy restaurant on Saturday and he’d like you to look after this place.” She gestures around at the kitchen and looks back at her husband, his brunette hair floppy around his face. “Right?” 

“Err, yeah...right,” Niko replies, his posture relaxing as he leans against the stainless steel counter next to him. 

“You good with that?” Eve asks, turning her attention to Kenny. 

“Me?” He gestures to himself with the meat cleaver still held tightly in his right hand. “Erm, sure.” 

“I don’t know how she did it, but Eve got us a reservation at Pécheresse.” Niko smiles over at his wife, he eyes softening as he looks at her. She smiles back, but her attention is quickly diverted to the sound of clanging metal coming from Kenny. The meat cleaver gently rocks on the counter next to him, having slipped from his grasp. She looks between the young man and the knife, her eyebrow raised in question as he shuffles awkwardly under her gaze. 

“It’s my mum” he says, taking a breath. “She works there.” He looks so uncomfortable at the confession as he rubs his hands on the front of the apron tied around his waist. 

“Your Mum?” Niko looks at him in surprise. “How come you never mentioned it before?” he asks, running a hand through his hair as he takes in the information. 

“Yeah Kenny. He’s be banging on about the amazing Astankova’s restaurant for weeks. You could have saved me the effort and just used your connections” Eve chips in, her voice laced with mirth as she winks at the young man. 

Niko rolls his eyes at her and laughs as Kenny exhales a sigh of relief, the awkwardness beginning to dissipate. “I just...didn’t want anyone to know. I like having something that’s just...mine.” 

Eve looks at him with fondness, taking a step closer and gently squeezes his upper arm. “I know the feeling.”

————————

“You know, you have to go home and sleep some time,” Konstantin says, his voice loud in the quiet of kitchen. 

It’s the early hours of the morning and Villanelle is still trying to perfect the pièce de résistance to her new menu with only a few days to go until the big event. She knows exactly what she’s trying to achieve but it’s just not coming out on the plate. She’s bent over, examining the delicacy in front of her and breathes out an exasperated sigh at the interruption from her mentor. 

“You should never interrupt a genius at work Konstantin,” she replies. “You taught me that.” She fixes him with a stare and put her hands on her hips, mimicking his familiar stance as his large frame fills the doorway. “How did you get in here anyway?” 

“Carolyn let me in.” Villanelle rolls her eyes because _of course_ Carolyn let him in. “She said you were staying late. What are you working on?” He moves further into the kitchen and joins her, taking a look at the dish on the counter in front of her.

It’s a small dessert shaped like a book, the pages made from layers of chocolate ganache, coconut parfait and a coffee gel. The book cover is made from rice paper which bares the image of a naked woman stood next to a tree, a serpent tempting her with an apple. The words _Original Sin_ adorn the plate in chocolate written in Villanelle’s looping script. It’s bold, dramatic and oozes artistic flair. Just like the chef herself. But something is _still_ missing. 

Konstantin regards her with a warm look, pride shining in his eyes as he bends down to take in the tiny details. “It’s beautiful and wonderfully over the top. I would expect nothing less.” 

“I’m still not happy with it,” she says, her brow furrowed as her mind churns to try and bring her creativity to life. Suddenly an idea hits her and she moves quickly around the kitchen to gather the items she needs. 

Konstantin watches her as she takes marzipan from one of the fridges and sets out some small dishes, dropping food dye into each one. She works diligently, her long fingers moving quickly to manipulate the ingredients as a comfortable silence settles between them. Her tongue pokes out the side of her mouth as she concentrates on the task and she blows away a few wisps of blonde hair that have fallen into her eyes. Konstantin knows he’s watching a master at work and for the first time admits only to himself that Villanelle will surpass his own skills, if she hasn’t already. 

She shapes the coloured marzipan into small balls and sticks a clove in the top, the object’s form taking shape. Taking a brush she paints a ripening hue on the tiny apples and transfers one to the plate, laying it gently on top of the book shaped dessert, bringing the picture of Eve to life. 

“Voila,” she says with a flourish of her right hand. “A bit rough around the edges but it gives it a little something extra, don’t you think?” 

Konstantin nods his head and hums in agreement at the dessert in front of him. “It might look good, but how about the taste?” He raises an eyebrow at her in challenge and she scoffs, handing him a fork. 

“Find out for yourself” she says, leaning nonchalantly against the prep station behind her, her right ankle crossed over her left and arms folded over her chest. She watches her mentor as he picks up the fork and slices right through the middle of her creation. She winces slightly at the destruction of her masterpiece, but such is the way when you’re a chef. Food gets made, food gets eaten. Villanelle always enjoys watching people marvel at her dishes, the skills she possesses to create them and of course, the compliments she receives afterwards. 

Konstantin’s eyes flutter closed briefly giving away his pleasure as the flavours hit his tastebuds. He makes an appreciative sound as Villanelle buffs her fingers nails on her chef’s jacket. 

“Was there ever any doubt dear Konstantin?” she says smirking at him. His laugh is loud and hearty, coming out in a burst and shatters the quiet of the kitchen. 

“What else is on this masterpiece menu?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Villanelle responds, tapping the side of her nose in secret. “You’ve already had a sneak peak, I’m not about to ruin the rest of the surprise.” 

“Okay, I shall wait patiently like everyone else,” he says, holding his hands up in front of him in faux surrender. “I have no doubt it will be spectacular...do you feel prepared?” He pauses, being cautious with his concern. Konstantin knows that his protégé won’t take too kindly to being doubted but he also knows that underneath her confident exterior, there will be a part of her consumed by the need to make sure everything is _just_ perfect. 

“Konstantin...” she draws out in a singsong voice. “O ye of little faith. My only concern at this stage is making sure Hugo can replicate that.” She nods her head towards the empty plate. “On second thought, maybe I’ll just take charge of that dish. There’s something about Eve that just needs a woman’s touch.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to hit me up on Twitter @ELWright_ or Em2205 on Tumblr :)


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